


We are friends

by Prephilo



Category: Ford v Ferrari
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prephilo/pseuds/Prephilo
Summary: Uncle Shelby and dad is having an affair.
Relationships: Carroll Shelby/Ken Miles
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	We are friends

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [We are friends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207750) by [Prephilo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prephilo/pseuds/Prephilo). 



> This version of translation is from @nekophliac, sorry for my poor English and many thanks to her!   
> Comments and Kudos are welcomed, glad to share my work with you. This story is writed with fully respect to those real characters, I apologize if it makes you uncomfortable. Hope you can enjoy it.

Uncle Shelby is a friend of my dad.  
They spend lots of time together, talking about races, cars, factories and business. They think I don’t understand, or don’t care. Either way, they don’t bother to avoid discussing matters in front of me.  
“Tell ‘em to lose another fifty on the suspension!” I hear Dad yell.  
“The car won’t be strong enough to withstand a crash, Miles. We’re not building a damn suicide missile.”  
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”  
I look out to see Dad picking up his toolbox, heading for the prototype car. Everyone in the factory has stopped, like those people on telly who shut up when the king is angry. Uncle Shelby waves his hands as normal, and everyone stops staring to get back to work. I know he doesn’t always agree with Dad, but he always was the one to give him a chance.  
“Do you think Dad will do it, Uncle Shelby?” I ask.  
He hands me a cold coke from the freezer-top and a beer for himself, and shrugs. “If it’s about this car, I’m willing to trust him.”  
“Is it because you can’t trust anyone else?”  
“I have a lot of people I trust.” he says, ruffling my hair, like Dad. “But you gotta understand that it’s dangerous to trust someone completely. More often than not, I only trust someone in certain ways. Be sincere and honest, Pete, but not to everyone.”  
“So, how much do you trust my dad?”  
He holds the beer bottle to his lips, and his cheeks move under his sunglasses into a wry smile. The lenses reflect the unpainted white-wash of the car.  
“Just as much as he trusts me.”  
I nod, vaguely aware that that answer probably meant they were on pretty good terms. I think that if Dad is willing to trust Uncle Shelby with this much, then he’s going to trust Dad in return.  
Dad’s a pretty trusting guy. Some late nights, he would down amber-colored liquid like water, and tell me he regretted joining the Army just because of a couple posters.  
“There’s no honor in a war. Just people killin’ each other to survive.” he’d often say. Then, his eyes would dim and Mom would help him into the bathroom with a blanket over his shoulder.  
You need intuition, he said. A killer instinct.  
I don’t want to kill anyone.  
Same with racing, he’d say. “You can’t win if you don’t wanna beat the bejesus outta someone else. Now instinct- that lets you survive the wheel-to-wheel fight, the blood pumping through your veins. It makes you choose to fight when you see it, the apex. You can’t be a good driver by bein’ rational.”  
He likes to talk much more when he’s drunk, just as he likes to run around the room with a kettle when he can’t find his tea. I don’t mind it.  
“But- You told me it takes brains to drive.” I say.  
“That’s right. You have to plan how you’re gonna use your tires, your brakes, figure out your opponent’s strategy, like a hunt- sometimes you’re on the run, sometimes you’re chasing, the predator. You’re all alone in the car, but you gotta trust the boys in the pit, that they won’t mess up when you box, trust the poor creature about to burn up under your ass…” he pauses for breath.  
“You’d have to be a very blind, very stupid fool to do such a thing.”  
“But I fell in love with said blind and stupid fool, dear.” Mom appears, and kisses Dad on the cheek.  
“Peter’s going to bed. He’s got school tommorow.” she says.  
I protest. “Can’t I go to the warehouse with Dad?”  
“No, you certainly can not.” She fixes me with a stern glare. “Wait until summer vacation, then you can stay at the warehouse as long as you want. Now, off to bed.”  
My shoulders droop in dismay.  
Dad points at me. He looks pretty drunk.  
“R-Remember kid, you listen ta Mollie. She’s always right.”  
==========  
As Mom promised, when summer came, I could stay as late as I wanted in the warehouse. Could even spend the night there with Dad.  
Even though they were paying Dad $200 a day, Mum was still working to save money.  
“You can’t put your family finances in the hands of men.” she says disgruntledly. “Men are all childish thrill-seekers.”  
“What about me?” I ask.  
“You too.” she laughs, turning off the gas. “Can you help me get these to Ken?”  
She hands me a basket full of sandwiches and drinks. I have to call Uncle Shelby before I set off for the warehouse, so he can pick me up at the station. It’s pretty hard to get in touch with Dad via the telephone, as he doesn’t hear anything while he’s working, and they won’t let him leave anyway.  
After picking me up, Uncle Shelby takes me to get ice cream, but before I could finish it at the store, he realised he was late for a meeting.  
“I’ll have the server put it in a cup for you and you can have it in the car. Just, don’t get it everywhere.”  
I watch the ice-cream being poured into the cup, the colours merging.  
“What’s the hurry?” I ask.  
“Uh, we’re going to order a new set of driveshafts.” he gestures around. “We have to ask the manufacturer for specifications and materials.”  
“Why can’t you just use some spares?”  
I run over and sit in the co-driver seat, despite the sun. I always liked Uncle Shelby’s Cobra, and he never gets annoyed, no matter how many questions I ask.  
“It’s gotta be the exact right size and right material, or the big guys will kick us out of the race.”  
I nod. It’s very like Uncle Shelby to try and find a way to make the car faster, within the rules. To run that race so close to the bottom line, but just barely apart to be legal. The car stops at a red light, and a red Mustang glints across the intersection.  
“Would you ever want that car?” Uncle Shelby asks.  
“No, I wouldn’t.” I shake my head. “Dad says it’s just a four-seater Jag E-Type with half its face cut off and slammed back into the door.”  
Uncle Shelby laughs heartily. “Pete, do you know what the true spirit of an American car feels like?”  
I shake my head slowly. Uncle Shelby starts shaping his mouth into a mischievous grin, slowly pressing the pedal down and letting the engine roar.  
The light turns green.  
“The spirit of an American car!” He yells at the top of his voice, pedals to the floor, the air filled with the wild roar of the 4.3-litre.

“A V8!” he yells as we shoot ahead, laughing at that Mustang full of highschool kids getting left behind in the rearview mirror. I learned long ago that Uncle Shelby very rarely drives the speed limit, unless he’s feeling emotional. In contrast, the other professional drivers I know actually drive pretty smoothly on the roads. They don’t drift around, or pull the handbrake just to hear the tires squeal. That’s just a trick, though. The real skill is manipulation, precision and finesse, bravery above skill.  
Uncle Shelby puts the car into third and drives, wildly, down the road.  
Later, when we’re going smoother, Uncle Shelby opens his mouth.  
“Your dad’s right, though.” he says, almost muffled by the wind blowing through.  
“Americans just don’t know how to make sports cars.”  
“Why? Aren’t you an American?”  
“Mustang is just for the market.” he frowns. “Here, cars are just tools. Families needed space, so we built four door sedans; Kids needed cheap, flashy cars, so we painted them fancy colours. Pragmatism robs the imagination of industrial design. It’s why we don’t have Ferraris, no Porsches, no true American sports car. You met Iacocca- what I admire about him is not his stunning impression of a corporate shark, but his infatuation with the automobile.”  
“Infatuation?”  
“He wants a real sports car, even if he doesn’t know it himself. He wants a car with character, with soul, spirit, with story. Your father and I are writing the story of this car. Hope you’re proud of him. He’s a great man.”  
Uncle Shelby looks even prouder than I do as he says that. I knew Dad was pretty good, but it’s hard not to feel a surge of emotion of this outside praise. It’s as if I was connected to something greater, even if I don’t have anything to offer them other than sandwiches.  
========  
At the warehouse, Uncle Shelby normally allows me to touch anything that doesn’t look important. And with the permission of the techs, the mechanics will occasionally ask me to hand over some tools if I’m closest. I hear arguments break out all the time- normally Dad starts them, but nobody worries much; it’s common knowledge that he gets angry easily. As long as Uncle Shelby is around, he doesn’t make a lot of noise. Except for that one time on the lawn.  
Mom said that Shelby also had a feisty, childish side. That people who share the same temperament tend to attract and get together.  
Shelby American is a team full of these people.  
I really like these people. They’re living a lifestyle.  
Uncle Shelby was running his business, and Dad was napping in his office. I could ask for Uncle Phil, or as they called him, Pops. I didn’t really get why, he’s younger than Dad. He would come over with a piece of paper and a pen, to entertain me for a while. If the people in the warehouse were scared of Dad, they were kind to and loved Phil, so I usually just called him by his first name.  
Uncle Gurney and Phil got along well, though. Dad would often complain: “Goddamn Yanks, always wanting Pops to curse my damn car.”  
Uncle Gurney was another one of the racers, younger than all of them. Uncle Shelby told me that he had always wanted to beat Dad, had thought it possible as Dad got older and he got faster.  
Gurney didn’t know how to get along with me. He tried to be nice to me, when clearly he didn’t want to be. I just didn’t want Dad to lose to him. I remember how, after Willow Springs, Gurney shot a look of pure venom from the front seat of number 15. It was that killer instinct Dad always talks about.  
All the drivers want to beat each other, so I didn’t- and won’t mind if he looks at us like that all the time, instead of playing pretend.

Later in the day, as rays of red shine through from the setting sun, Uncle Shelby sends the nonessential techs home for the Fourth of July. The more important engineers, the ones responsible for development and testing, stay behind.  
Uncle Shelby wants me back so Mom isn’t worried. I look at Dad, but he’s still busy muttering under the car.  
“The front is still unstable.” Dad says, stretched out below the prototype. He hits the front of the spoiler with a screwdriver.  
“We need to find more grip, or she’s gonna take off like a jet.”  
Uncle Shelby leans down and pats my head. “Look, Pete. We’ve had some problems, so we need some quiet for a while. Just like you don’t want to be disturbed when you’ve got a hard math problem, alright? Just give us a minute. I’ll take you for a ride on Sunday.”  
I didn’t need him to take me for an extra ride, but I understood. Sometimes grown-ups need space. He has Iacocca drive me back to the station, as he can also go pick up Ford’s VP for his flight later.  
Iacocca tells me lots of stories about his experiences as a salesman; odd customers, difficult bosses, even a half-executed joke about strippers before remembering that I'm not the big boss. I’m just a 14 year old boy.  
“Sorry, that joke was a bit, uh, out of place.” Both his hands tighten on the steering wheel, and he stares ahead at the road awkwardly. It’s a good idea. Reduces the chance of an accident, maybe.  
“I don’t mind.” I say. “It’s alright if you don’t say anything.”  
He pulls over at the station with a huff of relief, rolls down the window and lights a cigarette.  
“Sorry.” He flicks his ash out and looks at me, out of the corner of his eye. “I’m just a bit tired.”  
“I can see that. You’re all tired.”  
“..Thank you.”  
His voice is hoarse. Smoking isn’t a good habit.  
We wait at the station, in silence, for a few minutes. Darkness overtakes the sky and eventually our car.  
“Peter, can you get home by yourself?” Iacocca asks. He’s worried, very much so about the children of his engineers. Especially the hotheaded one.  
“The bus stops right outside my house. You have a plane to catch, right?”  
“Ah, yes.” Glancing down at his watch, he bites his lip.  
I wave at him to go, goodbye as he pulls the car back out to leave. He looks back as I sit there, waiting for the bus. I sit at the station for a while, waiting for the bus, when it occurs to me that I've forgotten something quite important.  
The bus stops in front of me and the driver pokes his head out.  
“Are ya gonna get on or not?” he scowls.  
“Sorry! I forgot something!” I yell, and start running back to the warehouse. I left the sandwich basket there, and Mom needs it to refill for tomorrow. It’s one of the few things I can do for Dad and Uncle Shelby. I have to take the basket home.  
Despite always being picked up, the warehouse isn’t actually too far away from the station. Although, by the time I got there, it was completely dark. Around nine, I guessed. The doors were still open, a few bright lamps still flickering inside. I tiptoed inside, and saw a figure moving through the office. it’s just Dad and Uncle Shelby. They always leave last.  
Phil’s not here, and Gurney is obviously gone. I look around for where I might have put the basket, and spot it under one of the desks near the office. I duck down there, and it’s close enough to hear Dad and Uncle Shelby talking.  
“Hey Ken, just. Can’t you be quiet for a minute?”  
“You can do somethin to shut me up.” Dad didn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounded cheeky. “Come on, you know you can do it.”  
“Pity on my poor, forsaken heart valve.”  
They stop talking, but I hear a small rustling, a little clatter of stationary. Curiosity overwhelms me, and I creep out, towards one of the windows. Lift the shutters.  
For a few seconds, I don’t understand what they’re doing. Dad is sat on the table, half the sleeve torn off his work smock. I can see his thin shoulders, and his waist. Uncle Shelby is there, unbuttoning his shirt. Their lips are together. That’s why they stopped talking.  
I slide down the wall with my back to the window. I hear Dad make a noise, a noise I’ve never heard before, not when he’s with Mom, not even when he’s in the driver’s seat.  
I’m terrified. I’m shocked to see something I’m clearly not supposed to, too shocked to think about right and wrong. I grab my basket, and run out the door. My hands are shaking. I barely run two steps before the basket clatters to the ground, and in the deafening silence of the empty warehouse, it sounds like an atomic bomb.  
I freeze.  
“What the hell was that?” Dad groans.  
“Oh, come on. Jeez. I’m gonna go check it out. Stay here.”  
Uncle Shelby comes down the steps. His senses are still as sharp as ever, even though he hasn’t raced in a while. He doesn’t hesitate to walk in the direction of my basket. I can’t breathe.  
The leather shoes walk, and stop right in front of me. He pulls back the tarp. Without his sunglasses on, I see in his eyes the same horror and panic reflected in mine.  
I shake my head. Please.  
He glances over his shoulder at the office. Behind the blinds, Dad was rolling up the ruined sleeve.  
“Shel! Please don’t tell me there’s a goddamn rat in here.”  
Uncle Shelby puts the tarp down, pulling it further down so my feet are also covered.  
“Hope not.” He sounds unnaturally calm. “Don’t see any rat tracks, reckon the wind knocked something over. Not our problem right now.”  
“Better be. Don’t wanna crash ‘cause some godforsaken rat bit a belt.”  
Dad’s still complaining, but he doesn’t doubt what Uncle Shelby told him.  
He trusted him. Always too easy to trust.  
“I’ll have Phil pick up some rat poison later.” Uncle Shelby says, walking back towards the office. I see Dad look up, a smile spreading across his face. Not the kind of smile he makes when he promises Mom something. No, this was a smile towards someone you wholly love and trust, knowing you can do whatever you want, and they wouldn’t see you any different. Would still be there.  
Uncle Shelby holds Dad’s hand, hesitating, knowing I was there. But Dad doesn’t know that. They kiss, they hug, they rock like lovers before me. I have to go.  
I don’t know how I got back to the station. How I got home. Mom saw the basket I was holding and guessed half of it. “I’m tired of walking.” I said, and went back and buried my head in my pillow.  
They’re doing great things, I know it. I know.  
I can’t stop myself from crying. I don’t know how long Uncle Shelby and Dad have been.. like this, but this isn’t the first time. There is no one who could get between them, I realised. They needed each other, breathed each other’s air.  
Uncle Shelby had given Dad that which he couldn’t achieve anymore, and with his support, Dad made his dreams come true.  
I want to see Dad win. I want to see a real sports car, one with the American spirit.  
They’re united for a great cause.  
I cried a bit more, not because I wanted to, but once I started it was hard to stop. I believe, no, I know that Dad is an honest man. And that Uncle Shelby is one too. But his words still echo in my head. You can’t be completely honest with everyone.  
Tonight, Uncle Shelby saved me and Dad. He protected two families, by lying to the one he loves. And I can’t think of a better reason to do it.  
But, that doesn’t make them any less great. Doesn’t affect the glory of their victory. I have to believe, like a blind and stupid fool, that the steps they take to make their dreams come true, to achieve greatness, are excusable.  
So, I wasn’t mad at Uncle Shelby.  
Wasn’t even after that, when Dad crashed the J-Car in front of us. I know he’s not responsible for the crash. Dad knew the risks when he got into a prototype going 200mph. We all know them.  
Not angry that he never had the courage to see Mom again.  
He stands in front of me, with flowers in his hands. He tries to find the right words, the man who can speak and sell rubbish to hundreds of people.  
He can’t find anything.  
Opens his mouth. “Peter, your father… He- He was…- “  
I wanted to cry, too. But I had to be stronger than he was.  
“He was your friend.”


End file.
